Poetics and Poetry Discussion
(9/20/2005 6:04:00 PM)
Since Diane di Prima says exactly what Dan Scheider evidently believes in despite his sneer, i.e. speaking truth and writing something fresh, perhaps we could have an example of her better (!) poetry posted here to judge from?
(9/20/2005 3:25:00 PM)
Heres an interesting take on Di Prima by Dan Schneider...a great critic, imho.
‘I think the poet is the last person who is still speaking the truth when no one else dares to. I think the poet is the first person to begin the shaping and visioning of the new forms and the new consciousness when no one else has begun to sense it; I think these are two of the most essential human functions’ -Diane Di Prima
Thus another TOP essay starts- & for the 1st time, I believe, with an epigraph! Woo-hoo! You just know this TOP is gonna be a humdinger when it starts off with a quote this utterly insipid. That & the fact that the titular poem is almost emblemic for the Beatnik nonsense that was perpetrated last century &- well- hold on, boys & girls!
OK, the central facts of DDP’s life: she was 1 of the 2 well-known Beatnik babes. Anne Waldman was the ‘sexy’ Beatnik babe & DDP was the ‘serious’ Beatnik babe. So serious, in fact, that she was dubbed a Poet Priestess, & other such nonsense terms by the boys in the gang, over a decade before the Flower Power crap of the late 1960s. Yet,1 has to credit DDP for changing with the times- something few of the Beatniks did. She has her own website- http: //dianediprima.com/-& you can even email her- firstname.lastname@example.org. Nonetheless, there is virtually nothing of worth that nearly 50 years of writing has produced. Her ‘status’ as a Beatnik babe will long outlast her status as a ‘poet’. But, before I delve too deeply in to the mystery of why DDP is a bad poet, let’s take a look at DDP’s life, culled from an online bio.
(9/20/2005 7:22:00 AM)
Security Express has just battered on my door with the 1993 Princeton Encyclopaedia, from which you can bone up on Australian poetry (2 pp, lotsa names)) , Canadian poetry (2pp each on Anglophone and Francophone) , Enjambment (2 pp) and Trope, no entry, comes under Figure...
Don't leave home without it...
(9/20/2005 12:17:00 AM)
Movers and Shakers, there seems to be scant regard for discussion on our better know Australia poets in this forum. Bruce Dawe, is arguably one of our finest, as is Les Murray, to name but two. Call me parochial if you wish, but talent is talent in any language. Here is a small example of Bruce Dawe's work that must be acknowledged for what it is, examplary. Any takers?
soliloquy for one dead
Ah, no Joe, you never knew
the whole of it, the whistling
which is only the wind in the chimney's
smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy
path that are always somebody else's.
I think of your limbs down there, softly
becoming mineral, the life of grasses,
and the old love of you thrusts the tears
up into my eyes, with the family aware
and looking somewhere else.
Sometimes when summer is over the land,
when the heat quickens the deaf timbers,
and birds are thick in the plums again,
my heart sickens, Joe, calling
for the water of your voice and the gone
agony of your nearness. I try hard
to forget, saying: If God wills,
it must be so, because of
His goodness, because-
but the grasshopper memory leaps
in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe,
you never knew the whole of it...
(9/18/2005 2:10:00 PM)
I opened Daniel Ladinsky's 'The Gift', his 'renderings' of Hafiz, at random, after asking 'What poem shall I post to Poemhunter now? ' (In Iran, the Divan of Hafiz' poetry is used as an oracle in that way.) Here is what I got:
STOP CALLING ME A
My Master once entered a phase
That whenever I would see him
He would say,
How did you ever become a pregnant woman? '
And I would reply,
You must be speaking the truth,
But all of what you say is a mystery to me.'
Many months passed in his blessed company.
But one day I lost my patience
Upon hearing that odd refrain
And blurted out,
'Stop calling me a pregnant woman! '
And Attar replied,
'Someday, my sweet Hafiz,
All the nonsense in your brain will dry up
Like a stagnant pool of water
Beneath the sun,
Though if you want to know the Truth
I can so clearly see that God has made love with you
And the whole universe is germinating
Inside your belly
And wonderful words,
Such enlightening words
Will take birth from you
And be cradeled against thousands
(note: Ladinsky centers his lines on the page. I don't know how to do that with PH software.)
(9/18/2005 9:20:00 AM)
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Poems often have something to do with the subject of identity. Here's a chilling article from CNN, about the way what used to be 'science fiction' is becoming medical option in our age. It's about a doctor who's ready to perform a 'face transplant'-and the possible physical and ethical consequences.
(It's not just an 'extreme make-over'. The candidates are people whose faces have been so disfigured by wounds, etc. There are powerful consequences to having 'someone elses face'.
(9/18/2005 4:44:00 AM)
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Here's another poem by Faiz not so far from Rilke's 'solitude':
Loneliness like a good, old friend
visits my house to pour wine in the evening.
And we sit together, waiting for the moon,
and for your face to sparkle in every shadow.Replies for this message:
To read all of 2 replies click here
(9/18/2005 12:20:00 AM)
Greetings movers and shakers, I'd like to introduce all of you to the Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz,1911-1984. I am fortunate to have a volume of his work translated by, Dr Estelle Dryland. Here's a sample, enjoy:
IN MEMORY OF MAKHDOOM
'All night long your memory haunts me'
All night long
Time burns, then
darkens as the
All night long your memory
honed by piquant
All night long your
A message borne on the
sweet breath of
its story to
A door chain taps
who used to reply.
All night long
(9/17/2005 8:29:00 PM)
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I haven't followed all the Rilke discussion, but here's a powerful piece of his prose.
THE UNNATURAL WILL TO ART*
by Ranier Maria Rilke
Do not expect me to talk about my interior effort, -I must be silent on that score; it would be unwise to render account, even to myself, of all the changes of fortune I shall have to undergo in my struggle towards concentration. This reversal of all one's forces, this changed direction of soul can never be accomplished without a number of crises; most artists avoid it by means of diversions, but that is just why they never again succeed in touching their center of production, from wich they started at the moment of their purest impulse. Always when you begin to work you must recreate this first innocence, you must return to the ingenuous place where the Angel discovered you when he brought you the first binding message; you must find once more the couch behind the briars where you were then asleep; this time you will not sleep there; you will have to pray and groan, -no matter: if the Angel deigns to appear, it will be because you have convinced him, not by tears but by your humble resolve to be always beginning-to be a Beginner!
Oh, Dear, how many times in my life-and never so much as now-have I told myself that Art, as I conceive it, is a movement contrary to nature. No doubt God never foresaw that any one of us would turn inwards upon himself in that way, which can only be permitted to the Saint because he seeks to beseige his God by attacking him from this unexpected and badly defended quarter. But for the rest of us, whom do we approach when we turn our back on events, on our future even, in order to throw ourselves into the abyss of our being, which would engulf us were it not for the sort of trustfulness that we bring to it, and which seems stronger even than the gravitation of our nature? If the meaning of sacrifice is that the moment of greatest danger coincides with that when one is saved, then certainly nothing resembles sacrifice more than this terrible will to Art. How tenacious it is, how insensate! All that the rest forget in order to make their life possible, we are always bent on discovering, on magnifying even; it is we who are the real awakeners of our monsters, to which we are not hostile enough to become their conquerors; for in a certain sense we are at one with them; it is they, the monsters, that hold the surplus strength which is indispensable to those that most surpass themselves. Unless one assigns to the act of victory a mysterious and far deeper meaning, it is not for us to consider ourselves the tamers of our internal lions. But suddenly we feel ourselves walking beside them, as in a Triumph, without being able to remember the exact moment when this inconceivable reconciliation took place (bridge barely curved that connects the terrible with the tender...) .
*Letter,1920, from LETTERS TO MERLINE.
excerpted in THE MODERN TRADITION, Ellman and Fiedelson, editors, Oxford University Press,1965.
(9/17/2005 7:32:00 PM)
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Here is a bit of Rilke, one version.
O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt.
Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls
- sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals,
bis in des stillen Blickes Licht - geliebt.
Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie's liebten, ward
ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum.
Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,
erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum
zu sein. Sie nährten es mit keinem Korn,
nur immer mit der Möglichkeit, es sei.
Und die gab solche Stärke an das Tier,
daß es aus sich ein Stirnhorn trieb. Ein Horn.
Zu einer Jungfrau kam es weiß herbei -
und war im Silber-Spiegel und in ihr.
Ah, here it is, the creature without life
They could not know but did just to be sure
Admire, love, its features so alive
Into the depth of stillness to endure
Though it was not an animal to love
Yet had become one in that inner room
Where it stood out to raise its head above
Itself, she nourished it not with a single corn
But always with the thought that it could be
And thus a strength formidable defied all doom
To grow from deep within its forehead’s own
A growth into its world, a unicorn.
Within the silver mirror it was plain to see
White, inside the maiden it had grown.